


How to fail and be successful

by WahlBuilder



Series: Scarves and Mittens [14]
Category: Horus Heresy - Various Authors
Genre: Astartes traditions, Fluff, Gift Giving, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-27
Updated: 2016-12-27
Packaged: 2018-09-12 09:27:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9065845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WahlBuilder/pseuds/WahlBuilder
Summary: Nykona was trying to make a gift for Sabik, but failed. Or did he?





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CatiZza](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CatiZza/gifts).



_Sisypheum_ was purring gently around Nykona, but instead of calming him, the sound only wound his nerves more. He realised he was terribly behind the schedule with his little project, and he was getting annoyed at the clumsiness of his body that he seemed to have no control over for the first time in his life as an Astartes.

Tonight would be the night, and his present was not nearly ready.

When the Iron Hands had started gathering in groups and pairs and trines, conspiring, talking in hushed tones, Nykona had become suspicious. But, unwilling to hurt Sabik, he had come to his only other ally—to Tarsa.

Smirking at Nykona’s questions, the Salamander had explained The Night of the Wyrm had been approaching. It was a domestic holiday in the Tenth Legion, a celebration of valour, of their Primarch—the day when Ferrus Manus had, supposedly, killed the Great Silver Wyrm Asirnoth.

The celebrations were not grand, and barely anyone knew about them outside the Tenth—and the Third, Nykona presumed. It was a time of being grateful for friendships and loves, for challenges and perils and survival. It was the time to renews oaths of friendship, of brotherhood, of love. And usually gifts were exchanged. The story behind the celebration demanded the gifts, however small, to be made by hand.

Now, more than ever, the Tenth needed to not only mourn their dead, but to celebrate their great victories, their bonds.

Nykona wanted to show Sabik how much he valued what they had. Nykona’s hair tie that Sabik was wearing on his arm was a promise, tied to remind them both about their oaths, but Nykona wanted to give something else.

Using all his skills—and connection to Tarsa—had given him a few ideas and then, materials to implement them.

But he couldn’t seem to get it right.

He was ready to let out a cry of humiliation and give up. He should have thought of some other present, but now he had no time at all.

The door hissed, opening, and Nykona’s first impulse was to stuff the wreck that was his attempt at making Sabik a gift under the cot, but he stopped himself. He had promised to not hide from Sabik. He might as well show him the failed gift and say that he knows about the Night…

‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere—but my own suite was the last place I’d expect you to be at this hour.’

Nykona looked up and managed a weak smile, dangling his legs from the cot. It was adjusted to Sabik’s height, which meant Nykona could not reach the floor unless he was sitting on the very edge. ‘Nobody at all would look for me here. Except,’ he added, ‘for Tarsa, maybe.’ The Salamander would have made a few comments about Nykona being holed up at Sabik’s suite the whole shift. ‘It’s quiet in here. But it can’t help me make any progress, it seems.’ And he gestured at the ruins of Sabik’s supposed gift in his lap.

Sabik shrugged off his utility vest then lowered himself on the cot near Nykona. Nykona had to fight with himself very hard to not lean on him immediately.

Sabik reached to him and picked a few loose threads. Their ends were ruined like everything else, fluffy and torn. ‘What were you trying to do?’

Nykona stabbed the hook into the ball of blue yarn with a force of all his frustration, and bit his lower lip as the hook went right through the ball and pricked his leg. ‘Crocheting mittens for you.’ _A gift for the hands of the Iron Hand_ , as Tarsa had said with laughter when Nykona had told him about his idea. ‘I don’t understand what’s wrong. I have tried doing this previous to this attempt, and it came out well.’

Or as well as a thin long scarf from eye-bleedingly bright yellow yarn could be anyway. Tarsa had claimed it for himself, said he would wear it under his armour.

But the monstrosity in Nykona’s lap was far worse than that, it was a mess of mismatched loops, torn yarn, and Nykona had to stop because his palms cramped so many times he’d lost count.

There was no shame in admitting defeat, at least not for Nykona, but with that he would have to admit that his own fingers were not deft enough to handle such a simple task. His own body—one of his primary weapons—failed him.

Sabik left the loose threads alone and dove into the nest of loops, then reached for the yarn ball and took out the hook. He turned it this side and that, and asked without interrupting his examination, ‘What’s the occasion?’

Nykona lowered his head, flexing his traitorous fingers. ‘The Night of the Wyrm. I wanted… Tarsa explained about the gift exchange tradition. I wanted to give you something.’

Sabik only hummed in reply, holding the hook with his forefinger and his thumb, then scooped everything that was on Nykona’s lap, put it one the chest at the foot of the cot. ‘The hook is the wrong size for this type of yarn and this kind of work. That’s all.’

Nykona watched his back in confusion as Sabik rummaged in his chest. ‘I saw that hooks come in different length, but I didn’t know it mattered so much.’

‘They have different circumference as well, Nykona.’ Sabik turned to him and smiled. ‘Were you beating yourself up because of this? You thought you had suddenly became clumsy?’

Nykona slumped. He was a fool.

‘Stop thinking whatever self-deprecating thoughts you’re thinking and instead stay with me.’ Sabik didn’t make a move to pull him closer.

So Nykona moved himself, and rested his head on Sabik’s shoulder. ‘I wanted to give you something good among this chaos, pain, death…’ he murmured.

‘And you did. You do. Stay for the Night. This will be your gift to me.’

Nykona smiled, his hearts melting. Then frowned. ‘Wait. How do you _know_ that the hook is wrong? Don’t tell me that crocheting is a Legion-wide activity.’

Sabik chuckled. ‘Some of the Morlocks like it as well as knitting. Helps maintaining the fine motor skills. Neophytes are taught, too.’

Nykona imagine young Neophytes, already in the process of accelerated growth, sitting in a circle and knitting under the guidance of an older brother, and snickered. ‘You Iron Hands are full of surprises.’

‘Yes, we are,’ sighed Sabik. ‘Yes, we are.’


End file.
